


Death and the Bard

by Kyla_Wren



Series: The Immortal Bard [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Geralt as Hades, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Jaskier as Persephone, M/M, Queen Calanthe as Demeter, Romantic Fluff, the white wolf and the prince of spring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22409002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyla_Wren/pseuds/Kyla_Wren
Summary: “You ate something, didn’t you?”“I got jolly hungry. You’ve left me here for three days.”Geralt blew his breath out through his nose, willing himself to be calm. “Just tell me what it was.”Jaskier waved his hand, dismissive. “A few pomegranate seeds, nothing more.”“...Fuck.”A Hades/Persephone daydream.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Immortal Bard [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611214
Comments: 72
Kudos: 946





	Death and the Bard

“Out of the question.”

Queen Calanthe’s large eyes rolled in their sockets, under the weight of a wheat-gold crown. She sat slumped on her throne, somehow made more imposing by her weary contempt than every straight-backed royal that ever visited the summer court.

“Mother, please.” Jaskier twisted to face her, strumming a random pattern on his lute. His voice was an earnest plea, much more serious than the put-upon whine he often used when needling the queen about his desire to travel.

“You know that winter is almost over.”

“Yes, and once spring is done you’ll be wanting help with summertide, and then spells for the harvest, and then it will be winter again and you’ll tell me that _springtime is just around the corner._ Again.” The prince turned back around on the stone steps below the throne, continuing to fiddle with his instrument. The feasting hall before them was almost empty, with only a few servants left to clear plates and sweep the rushes. 

“Forgive me if I don’t want my only son to go wandering in the world.” Calanthe shifted, looking away. “ _And_ to leave me without the floral spells.”

“ _Adopted_ only son,” Jaskier reminded. “You’ve still got Pavetta, anyhow. She’s much more powerful than me.”

The prince let his fingers fall still on the strings. His tone was matter-of-fact, free of any jealousy. He loved his sister. She was delicate and pretty like a white rabbit, with a cyclone of raw chaos magic concealed in her fluttering heart.

He was surprised to feel Calanthe’s hand on his shoulder. She had moved without noise to stand behind him. 

“Pavetta is powerful. But her magic lies elsewhere. You are the only Prince of Spring in this kingdom. We _need_ you.”

Jaskier gave her a faltering smile. He also loved his mother. Even though she did this to him every year, decade after decade.

To soothe her, he played a more deliberate collection of notes, winding his magic into every sound. The dead rushes at his feet greened and curled, becoming a living vine. A perfect russet-colored blossom opened at its end, close enough to pluck and hand to the queen.

She took it with a smile, that familiar smirk that she made when she got her own way. With a final kiss to his forehead, she departed.

Jaskier waited until he heard her footsteps fade completely before ducking out the back window.

  
  


The tavern was busy tonight. Jaskier came here often, this imitation of the wider world, to play pretend. He would introduce himself as a bard, sing a few songs with bawdy lyrics and without any magic, and collect a few coins as pocket money. Sometimes he had a tough audience, but even the experience of being pelted by vegetables was novel in its own way.

“Rough crowd ‘ere tonight,” the barkeep warned. The man knew him and tolerated his games, despite the fact that Queen Calanthe could have his head for it if she were a less reasonable monarch.

“No matter.” Jaskier accepted a pint and drummed his hand on the bar, full of surplus energy. He had a new composition to try out on the unsuspecting masses tonight. He’d managed to find a perfect rhyme for _abortion_ , so they were in for a treat.

His host kept looking at the darkest corner of the room, something like fear flickering in his eyes. The prince turned, curious, and took in the sight of a tall, swarthy man with hair as silver-light as Pavetta’s. The resemblance stopped there - this man had murder on his face and in every sinew of his tensed body as he drank his ale alone. His garments were all in shades of black and he looked in desperate need of a wash.

“Who’s that?” Jaskier felt a shiver of excitement skip down his spine. He never did know how to keep out of trouble.

“Dunno. Sooner ‘e leaves the better, though.” The barkeep grunted and turned away. Jaskier’s eyes lingered longer.

Much to the prince’s joy, the stranger had not left by the time he finished his song. Despite its poor reception (he collected up some nice bread rolls that had been flung his way), Jaskier was in a good mood as he went up to introduce himself. Performing always made his blood thunder in his veins, almost as much as handsome strangers with - upon closer inspection - remarkable golden eyes.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” he said. Not his worst line, and he imagined the stranger’s lips curled up just the smallest amount in response.

“I’m here to drink alone.” Despite his words, the man made no move to shove Jaskier away. It was all the encouragement the prince needed to take a seat across the table.

“I’m Jaskier. And you are - hm, white hair, black armor, two very scary swords…” He snapped his fingers. “You’re from the Underworld. A Deathbringer.”

“You’re not afraid?” The stranger’s voice was a deep growl, but Jaskier detected some weary amusement.

“I’m not mortal.” 

“Hm. Thought so.” When Jaskier continued to look at him with those open, expectant eyes, the stranger relented. “Geralt.”

“ _King_ Geralt? Ha! You’re not just _from_ the Underworld, you rule it. What are you doing so far from home?”

“Making the rounds, same as always.” The king took a drink from his tankard. “Ushering souls.”

“Huh. You’re quite dedicated.” Jaskier considered him, a dreamy look coming into his eye. “Hey - let me come with you.”

Geralt snorted. “No.”

The prince smiled. “I can help improve your reputation. Mortals are so cagey about death. I’ll write epic songs about your adventures, and leave flowers wherever we go.”

To illustrate, he played a tricky set of notes, putting fresh sap in the wood of Geralt’s tankard. In seconds a twig sprouted from the side, carrying fresh green leaves and a white apple blossom.

The Deathbringer put it down, slow and deliberate. “A prince of spring.”

Jaskier bowed his head, smiling.

“I don’t need a bard. A prince of spring even less.”

Needed or not, it was the start of their partnership.

  
  


For all his protestations, Geralt never used magic to keep Jaskier from following him - and nothing less would have prevented the prince from tagging along. Jaskier could be quite stubborn, in a sunny, irrepressible way that the king didn’t know how to deal with.

Deathbringing was grim, silent, cold work. Geralt had done it for centuries. Every winter he left his castle’s keep and walked the mortal realms. For three long months in the year he ended the lives of men and monsters who posed a threat to the innocent, and ushered them into the Underworld. 

Doing the job alongside a man who sang and prattled and played a lute was bizarre. At first, the unending chatter gave Geralt a headache, and he did everything in his power to silence his unwanted companion. As the days turned into weeks, though, he noticed that Jaskier’s presence brought a kind of comfort. The bard’s spirit never faltered, though the trek was hard and full of danger. Having him by his side every night at the campfire made the Deathbringer feel… _what was it, exactly?_ It was like feeling all the loneliness of his years at once, stretching out through the past. A long shadow behind the bright spot of his current situation. A kind of jealous greed for a treasure found.

“You should return to the Summer Queen.” Something self-destructive made him say it, some part of himself that he called _duty and honor_. They were camped by a river, the water running under a thin crust of ice. He sat beside his bard, handing him some dinner they’d caught before dark and cooked over the fire.

Jaskier accepted the proffered meat. He smiled at Geralt. “We’ve just set out.”

“It’s been weeks. She’s looking for you.”

Jaskier shrugged, taking a bite. “My mother is a _frighteningly_ strong woman. She can bear me travelling for a few months, even if she says she can’t.”

Geralt grunted. He leaned back on the fallen tree they had repurposed as a headboard, shutting his eyes. After a few moments he heard Jaskier reach for his lute and play a quiet tune.

Soft moss grew thick underneath his head, buoying him on a cushion of green. The scent of fresh, sunlit forest washed over him. 

“Mm.” Geralt didn’t open his eyes, pressing his cheek into the magic pillow. With the light and warmth of their fire dancing across his eyelids, he could pretend he was in a different season entirely. Jaskier put his lute aside and made himself comfortable at the Deathbringer’s side.

After a beat, Geralt reached out to pull the bard close to his chest. He left his arm draped over the other man, enclosing them both in shared warmth. _Ferns and fresh blossoms and snowmelt._ The scents of spring brought the Deathbringer peace.

  
  


“I didn’t want to bring you here. I have no choice, though.” Geralt grunted.

“Oh, very nice. Very hospitable of you.” The prince’s sarcasm was actually one of Geralt’s favorite things about him, though it grated on him now.

“The Underworld is no place for you.” The Deathbringer chanted to break his own warding spells, opening a portal for them to enter the gates of his fortress.

They were atop a windswept mountain under perpetual star-less night, on another plane from the mortal realm. The land of the dead was vast and desolate, crowded with shadows. Only the strongest threat in the kingdoms of men would lead Geralt to take his bard here.

Unfortunately, warring armies and hired assassins had made life too dangerous for Jaskier as winter came to its end. Queen Calanthe was engaged in a battle with another nation, and they were bent on murdering her adopted son. _Kill the spring-bringer and you kill the harvest_ , was their line of thinking. They weren’t wrong.

Geralt was not satisfied to merely take the prince home. He doubted Calanthe’s forces could protect him. No, the only way to be sure was to kill the Nilfgaardian king himself, while Jaskier was kept safe in the only place truly unreachable. 

“Wow, look at all this. It’s what I should have expected, given your whole…” Jaskier gestured to Geralt’s black armor, inches away from him on the back of the horse. “...aesthetic.”

The Deathbringer grunted. He was paying very close attention to his bard, looking for any signs of the Fear-madness that gripped most magic-wielders (and all mortals) who lived and yet walked in the world of the dead. As always, Jaskier was calm. Perhaps a bit more sass than usual. When a three-headed dog came running out to meet them, the bard tightened his grip ever so slightly on Geralt’s waist. When the horse didn’t shy and the Deathbringer reached down to pat each of the three heads in turn, he relaxed.

“You’ll just stay here for a night or two. Out of trouble. Don’t talk to the dead. Don’t eat the food. I’ve packed enough in the saddlebags for you to be fine.”

“Don’t talk, don’t eat… what else, no singing?”

“I’m not delusional.” Geralt dismounted, extending a hand to help his guest down. “You’ll stay in my chambers. Don’t wander.”

“You don’t say.” Jaskier waggled his eyebrows at Geralt’s retreating back, his insinuation lost on the brooding man. The Deathbringer was moving fast, allowing him only brief glances at a dozen fantastical sights. A grey courtyard of bare white trees. A mead hall of dancing shadows and reddish light. A staircase that climbed up and up into impossible heights. A ghost, little more than a floating ink-colored shadow, sweeping the floor of an empty kitchen. It was cold and dry and dusty, but Jaskier liked it. It was Geralt’s home, and he liked Geralt.

  
  


In three days the Deathbringer returned home, having personally ushered the King of Nilfgaard to the Underworld. Geralt knew right away that none of his edicts had been followed.

The courtyard was transformed, each bare-limbed tree enchanted to bear thousands of sharp golden leaves and white scented blossoms. They sprinkled the ground and followed him inside, tracked about by feet that had been in and out dozens of times. The servants were singing, in low reedy voices, an assortment of folksongs. They fell silent when they spied Geralt, but he heard them moving from hall to hall. Everywhere the dust had been stirred, the hearths lit, the windows thrown open. Boughs of white flowers and green vines snaked around the banisters.

He found the bard in his chambers, lounging on the bed amongst a cyclone of sheets. The window was open, and a fresh smell of spring rain filled the room. He was playing a song, which he cut off abruptly with a twang upon seeing his host.

“Geralt! You’re back!” There was clear delight in Jaskier’s voice, which prickled at the Deathbringer’s heart. Then he saw how bright Jaskier’s eyes were. The flush of his cheeks. No one living could spend days in this realm without losing their color and energy, not unless - 

The Deathbringer’s eyes swiveled to the bowl of fruit on the table and back to the bard.

“You ate something, didn’t you?”

“I got jolly hungry. You’ve left me here for three days.”

Geralt blew his breath out through his nose, willing himself to be calm. “Just tell me what it was.”

Jaskier waved his hand, dismissive. “A few pomegranate seeds, nothing more.”

“...Fuck.”

The King of the Underworld turned and took a few halting steps to the window, his hand flexing. It seemed he was laboring under the weight of some great emotion. Jaskier frowned after him.

“What is it, Geralt? Am I poisoned again?”

“No.” His voice was an even deeper growl than usual. After a few more moments of internal wrestling, he turned his head towards Jaskier without meeting his eye. “You shouldn’t have eaten the food of the dead. Now… I could keep you here.”

Jaskier, for once, said nothing. Geralt’s hand flexed again, into a fist at his side.

“I _want_ to keep you here.”

The prince crossed the room, closing his own hand over Geralt’s and standing close.

“Then keep me. I’m yours.”

The Deathbringer froze. Jaskier, in the latest and boldest gesture of bravery after a winter of facing down monsters and unfriendly tavern crowds, closed the distance to kiss him.

When his shock melted, Geralt grasped him with perhaps more force than necessary and deepened the kiss. The scent of forest walks and new flowers overwhelmed him. Jaskier didn’t falter, reaching to tangle his hand in silver-white hair.

  
  


The pomegranate seeds were an excellent excuse. Queen Calanthe, when her son returned to the Summer Court, was honor-bound to accept his new arrangement. Springtime in the mortal realm, summer and autumn in the Underworld, and winters spent travelling with the King of all Deathbringers. 

No one had to know their little secret. The morning after Geralt returned home, when the bard and the Deathbringer awoke naked and tangled in each other’s arms, Jaskier had eaten two more whole pomegranates. Just to be sure.

**Author's Note:**

> These two. I just love them. Leave a comment if you enjoyed, I loveeee talking about our boys.


End file.
